


Desire

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Mycroft is an Idiot for Waiting So Long, Chocolate, First Time, Food Kink, Humor, Lestrade is Just a Beautiful Man, Likely Rug Burns, M/M, Misinterpretations of Buddhism, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"A six-year hard-on is bad for a man's health, don't you think?" asked Greg.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desire

 

Mycroft climbed the single flight of dark mahogany stairs, his heart hammering far out of proportion to the simple physical effort. The sensation of wanting someone and of knowing he was wanted in return buoyed him, carried him effortlessly across the landing and down the hallway. Carried him so quickly that his mind very nearly failed to keep pace with his body.

Greg Lestrade had left him a message that couldn't really be clearer.

 

_Mycroft--_

_Meet me at your house. We both need a good shag, so let's get on with it._

_Hurry up._

_G._

_  
_

But when Mycroft reached the threshold of his bedroom and pushed open the door, his mind leaped ahead to bar the way. He no longer felt weightless, no longer felt a thousand volts of longing animating his muscles. Now he felt leaden, immobile. An undefined fear coiled deep in his chest.

Greg stirred and stretched, lying face down on the bed. Turned his head towards the doorway. Gathered a pillow more comfortably beneath his cheek. Opened one weary brown eye. Smiled. Yawned.

"Come on, then. Shoes off. Jacket off. Bed." Greg firmly patted the empty expanse of creamy cotton next to him with one hand while rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. Both eyes were now open and blinking at the intrusive bright light from the hallway.

In times of great national import--hours of tension and terror--everyone knew Mycroft Holmes could be counted upon for calm, clear-headed thinking. His analysis was deliberate, measured. Never rash, never impulsive. Mycroft weighed facts, applied logic, and made the right choice. The right choice usually meant the greatest good for the greatest number--or failing that, the greatest good for a goodly number. But in hours of tension and terror involving his own personal life--specifically involving his unfortunate, persistent craving for a companion, a friend, or a long, slow fuck--well, the calculus was more difficult, to say the least.

Right now it seemed that measured analysis and logic were failing Mycroft in a rather spectacular fashion. He wanted Greg Lestrade. Had wanted him from the first instant he met him six years ago. But that was not the point. Mycroft had in his notebook a list of eight clear and undeniable reasons _not_ to become involved with Detective Inspector Lestrade; reasons that he revised, underlined, and annotated frequently. So now, despite the fact that the man had deposited himself in Mycroft's home--in his bed, in fact--in the middle of the night, it should be a simple matter to get rid of him. Mycroft could surely steel himself against the sight of Greg Lestrade's arms and legs sprawled lazily across the duvet . . .

But alas, no. Mycroft had gone mute and wobbly. He could only stare at a few beads of sweat on the D. I.'s temple and imagine pressing his lips just there. Right . . . _there._ And then sinking his teeth into the most beautiful, round arse he had ever . . .

Greg propped himself on an elbow, and sighed, 'You'd try the patience of a saint, Mycroft." The D. I. sat up gracefully and began unbuttoning his pale blue shirt. "I told you I'm patient, and I am. But this is bloody torture and it has to stop. A six-year hard-on is bad for a man's health, don't you think?" asked Greg, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it to the floor. Untucking his white t-shirt, then pulling it up and off and throwing it straight at Mycroft's crimson face.

Mycroft wanted to ask whether the six-year hard-on referred to his own penis or Lestrade's, but then realized that was really beside the point, so remained silent, pondering his next move and staring at Lestrade's chest.

Mycroft took no small amount of pride in having for the most part overcome his need for physical affection. When absolutely necessary, in times of crisis with Sherlock, he confided in Anthea while she held one of his hands in hers. And when more primal cravings overwhelmed him, Mycroft knew a half dozen men whose time and discretion could be bought for a reasonable price. But these instances were rare indeed because Mycroft had evolved beyond such weaknesses.

Mycroft squared his shoulders and decided that he would _not_ surrender to weakness tonight. Would not press his face to Greg Lestrade's t-shirt and inhale. Nor would he press his erection to Greg Lestrade's arse and exhale. He realized that putting such limitations on inhaling and exhaling could lead to rather dire consequences, but he was sure he could shoo Lestrade out of his house before fainting dead away.

Greg slid off the bed. Repeated his ridiculous toothy smile. Unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and kicked them off, followed by his white boxers. "Your turn, Mycroft. We're getting naked now."

 _Hmpf._ Mycroft didn't think so. Yes, of course, he could stare at the manly perfection in front of him for hours, but he was not giving in to lust. _No. Absolutely not._ At one time, Mycroft Holmes had been ruled by unbridled desires and 24/7 nakedness, but that was a thing of the past.

At university Mycroft was known for ravenous appetites for alcohol, food, and sex. Then, after four years of debauchery, he went in search of something more, finally spending two years on a diet of rice, lentils, and philosophical discussion in Lhasa and Kathmandu. Leaving this ascetic interlude one hundred pounds lighter and thoroughly enlightened, his guiding tenet for the next twenty years was the belief that ignorance and desire are the roots of all unhappiness in the world. Always a studious, intellectual young man, he found it easy to banish ignorance from his life--to the absurd extreme of pursuing omniscience.

Omniscience turned out to be a piece of cake compared to the well nigh impossible task of banishing desire--and, to be honest, pieces of cake--from his life. But through superhuman efforts, Mycroft usually managed to control his desires--except at times like these.

Greg's face suddenly lit up. "Damn‚ I forgot! I brought you something!" He turned to rummage on the bedside table where he had put his keys, mobile, and lube. He scooped up something wrapped in blue and orange paper, and waved it gleefully.

"Anthea said you fancied these, and I thought you might be needing a little midnight snack before I shag the life out of you, so . . ." Greg pulled the t-shirt out of Mycroft's hand and replaced it with a chocolate bar.

The sight of one of his guilty pleasures, sporting the label "not for girls," made Mycroft giggle. "A Yorkie!" he squealed.

Greg seized this moment of weakness to take Mycroft's other hand and pull him across the threshold and into the bedroom. He quickly tugged Mycroft's jacket off and let it fall to the floor before starting to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. Then the D. I. licked his lips before touching them to Mycroft's, noting the heat rising in Mycroft's body and the scent of melting chocolate filling the air.

Mycroft shook his head and backed toward the door, grabbing the handle, and forcing himself to speak: "I came to . . . to say that you should be on your way. That I can't . . . to make you aware that this is not . . . a viable . . . an appropriate . . . I can't . . . I won't . . . "

Mycroft stepped sideways into the plush curtains covering the nearby window. In an effort to resist the desperate urge to drop to his knees and bury his face between Greg's thighs, Mycroft tightly clutched the fabric in one hand and his fragrant chocolate bar in the other.

Mycroft started to explain that he was beyond fleshly desire, had no time for or interest in these kinds of vulgar human interactions. Attempted to use his scary warehouse voice. But Lestrade put his own stubby finger to his lips and shook his head. He pulled Mycroft's hand away from the curtains and ordered, "Let go."

Greg pulled the chocolate bar from Mycroft's other hand and tore the wrapper off before shoving it into Mycroft's mouth. " Sorry, My. I thought maybe we could put your mouth to better use tonight, but now I think this is the only way to shut you up."

Ignoring a brief, pleading whimper, Greg quickly removed Mycroft's tie and began unbuttoning his shirt, while rubbing his bare cock against Mycroft's through the fine fabric of his trousers, patiently finding precisely the right rhythm and pressure to drag a long, low groan from Mycroft's full throat, punctuated by the sloppy sucking sound of his lips wrapped around the Yorkie.

"Let go," Greg urged again, and this time he was pulling the chocolate from Mycroft's teeth and replacing it with a thrusting tongue that Mycroft thought tasted so much better. Mycroft sucked and nibbled and swirled his tongue around Greg's, thinking, "Not enough. I'll never get enough of the way this man tastes."

Eventually Mycroft recognized that Greg had managed to finish undressing him and he was naked, pressed into the luxurious folds of the red velvet curtains, feeling the friction of the fabric sliding over his skin and Greg's warm lips sliding over his neck and shoulders.

"Open your mouth wider, Mycroft. Wider. That's it." Mycroft felt a small bite of chocolate again on his teeth and tongue, sweet, sticky saliva dripping down his chin, the burning of sugar and bitter cocoa coating his throat. The flat of Greg's tongue pressed against Mycroft's nipples just before the detective's lips began to suck and pull more moans from Mycroft's throat. Teeth scraping against his hip and fingers slicked with something thick and cool were pressing into his tight, clenching hole.

"Let go," said Greg once more as he painted wet swirls with his tongue on Mycroft's belly and pressed his chest against Mycroft's long, stiff cock.

"Mycroft swallowed the last morsel of chocolate in time to ask breathlessly, eager to do whatever Greg wanted, "Let go of what?"

"Everything," said Greg, just before his fingers drove further into Mycroft 's body and his mouth slid over Mycroft's cock. Greg was sucking and licking in counterpoint to the movement of his fingers, pulling and pushing deeper and faster until Mycroft felt the explosive, shuddering climax in every cell of his body, collapsing in a twitching, trembling heap on the rug beside Greg.

And now Greg was laughing. _Oh god_ , thought Mycroft, W _hat have I done? Why is he laughing at the most transcendent moment of my life?  
_

Mycroft gave the D. I. a practiced scowl, as far as he was able in his altered state. "That's very rude, Inspector Lestrade. Why are you laughing at me?"

"Not laughing at you, Mycroft. Just wishing you hadn't come quite so soon--I had a whole bag of tricks I wanted to pull out for you. Wanted you to remember our first time. Now we'll have to wait awhile for you to recover before I can try a few more clever moves."

"Is that right?"

Mycroft smirked as he climbed on top of Lestrade, effortlessly sliding onto the Inspector's sizable erection. Greg's eyes rolled back in their sockets and he let out a guttural gasp of pleasure, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mycroft, what the bloody hell are you doing? I've never felt anything so good in my life. . . . nghfmmphh!" Then, feeling Mycroft's cock stiffen suddenly against his stomach, Greg had to ask, "And how are you so fucking hard again already?"

"You'll discover all my secrets in due time, Greg. A little meditation, some brown rice, and the proper channeling of desire can do wonders."

Greg was nearly beyond words, digging his fingers into Mycroft's hips and watching in disbelief as he realized they were actually levitating--hovering a few inches above the carpet. "What the bloody . . . oh . . . oh God," he managed to gasp, " What do you call this thing you're doing, Mycroft? It's fucking amazing . . . "

"Hmmm, never thought of what to call it," whispered Mycroft into Greg's ear, as he lifted them another foot off the ground, and sent Greg into spasms of ecstasy. "How about enlightenment?"

 


End file.
